Spare Time
by Garmonbozia
Summary: They're all very secret, very private people. But they have hours to kill too. Everybody's got a favourite hobby, a little pasttime. 221Bs on the subject of their various personal pleasures.


The various extra-investigatory pursuits of the World's Only Consulting Detective are many, disparate and well-documented. There's the academic study and scientific experimentation and prodigious musical talent, the upkeep of the website, the lists of ashes and perfumes and the various indicators which, properly applied, may allow one to pinpoint, to within mere metres, any given still view of the Thames. But you know all this, don't you? And you know, too, how hard the man in question works. Doesn't leave a lot of free time, does it?

But you probably don't know about the walking. Even if you'd seen it with your own eyes you might have mistaken it for investigation. You don't know that, sometimes, with the fevered agitation of one about to be shot, he'll stand from his chair, sling on his coat and leave Baker Street for the city. He'll have his head down and his collar up, but the eyes see all, and they flicker everywhere, take in everything. Like he's looking for something in particular, and it is wilfully evading him, hiding in dark corners and in the worst of streets, underneath the arches and on the other side of the bridge and he never, never ever finds it.

But he keeps looking. Under neons. Under streetlights. Where police beacons light the river up in blue.

* * *

All over the world, in any city that has been home to her for more than a month, there will be someone who trains opera singers. They'll know her face, and each of them will know her by a different name. But the woman is always the same. The voice is always the same. Each of them will have sought out auditions, time and time again, and given her all the details. Tried to coax her to go, even gotten promises from her. But the promises always get broken. She never goes.

Irene Adler never had any real desire for fame. She was taught to sing as a girl at school, and told, repeatedly, her voice was beautiful. They told her everything was beautiful, though. The word stopped meaning anything after a while. Beauty was power, and any beauty that didn't help her out was worthless.

And yet she still sings. Still keeps going back to all these teachers. For a while she told herself she did it to improve her lung capacity. A work thing. Just another unfortunate stricture of the profession.

Then she stopped making excuses. Devoted her energies to keeping the secret.

She dreams sometimes. The stages of Europe lit for her. Sets like palaces. Costumes like rituals of gold. Songs for her. Salome. Mimi. Violetta. Delilah. Brunhilde.

* * *

There is nothing more delicious or satisfying than that which you make for yourself. Mycroft has always made for himself. The life of the lonely is one of independence, of self-sufficiency, and all too often a life of self-sufficiency and independence can turn out to be lonely. When it's dark and he's almost asleep sometimes a voice asked if he would have done anything differently, had he known that. It always asks. He always tells it no, but it always asks. Like it knows better.

But he wouldn't, you know. Nothing would have been different. Because the world as Mycroft knows it _needs_ him to be this way. Someone has to be in control. Most people don't understand this, but they live in a world that someone else has to carve, and that person can't afford the luxuries of affection, of sentiment, of loyalty.

This is the world that Mycroft Holmes has made for himself. It hangs on him, rotates on his axis. And any mistake he might make is going to affect it. So he can't make mistakes.

It's an art. It requires precision, but delicacy too. It reminds him of what he is, and what he means. Every gram, every fluid ounce makes all the difference. Taste hangs on a teaspoon of sugar.

Friday evenings, Sunday mornings, Mycroft bakes.

* * *

Greg is number 18. It's a good night, decent night, good numbers. He's got the good shirt on too. The bell rings and he makes his way from number 13, Alison, to number 14, Neve. Neve's twenty-six, nervous, Spanish by colouring, Sussex by voice. Soft-spoken. He likes her. She asks the usual, who he is, what he does for a living, but he guides the conversation quickly back to her and lets it stay there. Wastes the three minutes that way. A friend sent her to this particular event, she says. Told her to 'relax'. Greg tells her the same, but he doesn't say it in that patronizing way. He knows because he's been there.

A friend sent him to the first one too. They weren't quite so polite about it. It might have been 'get your wick dipped' rather than 'relax'. And he hated the first one. Never did call any of them back. But he went to another. And pretty soon he realized that having five or six names after yours on the board at the end, the 'Interested' list, was more than the average.

So he speed-dates. Never calls any of them back, never meets them again. Just looks at the end to see how many names there are.

The bell rings. He moves to number 15, Beryl.

* * *

John sticks his head in says he's off to the shops and does she need anything. John's a good boy, a thoughtful boy. Mrs Hudson shuffles into her slippers and nips to the living room. She returns with the paper and points out the horse. "He's called Stravinsky's Fugue and he's up at two-to-one. Be a dear and stop in at the bookies for me, would you? A tenner on him to _lose_."

He gives her that strange little look of concern, but he takes the money, makes a note of the race and goes. Mrs Hudson settles back to her mid-morning tea, snuggled cosy in the sofa. And when Phillip and Holly leave and all the cash has been successfully siphoned from the attic, she flips over to the races on Channel Four to see Stravinsky's Fugue run. Or _try_ to, anyway. 'Corned Beef', they ought to call that horse. 'Glue Boy'. She curls up, hands balling into fists, shaking with delight as he comes in fourth

Oh yeah, Hudson can spot a bookie's fix at a hundred yards. Two-to-one, my eye. Not sired by Harry's Braces out of Erudite, he's not. Two-to-one? Only the mugs would pay it, and the bookie and the girls behind the glass collect. Oh, and canny girls like Mrs Hudson. She's got _their_ books…

* * *

Anderson goes on ghost-hunts. Donovan paints her little sister's fingernails once a week. John reads trashy thrillers and Molly Hooper digs horror movies. Jim Moriarty collects vintage recordings of musicians tuning up, chatting backstage, basically doing anything but play music. And don't they all sound like interesting stories? Don't you wish I'd tell you more about it all?

But I can't go into any more detail.

Because I've said too much already. Because these are incidents and hobbies and little loves from the very core of the most secret sort of people. Because they don't deserve it. I could tell you about Anthea's little Rocky Horror habit, but I might as well tell you her real name. I've said too, too much already.

No, the rest stays. The tapes and records will keep in their secret box, the Hammer box-set stay at the back of the shelf, the weekly ritual of buying a new shade of nail varnish remain between Sally and the girl who works in Boots. Copies of Cussler and Clancy stay under the bed, with photos of glowing orbs and spectral faces. Cakes stay in the tin. Walks are fervent and secret, songs for the practice room only. The bookie keeps his mouth shut, as must you, if you ever see Greg's name up there on the board.


End file.
